


Five Things I'll Teach You

by laceandgrace (thingsarequeer)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsarequeer/pseuds/laceandgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are five lessons Dean has left to teach Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things I'll Teach You

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to 3x07. Inspired loosely by a comment made in an entry on LJ that talked about things that Dean should teach Sam before his deal is up. 
> 
> It's also important to note that I know the timeline for the mentioned video game system is not accurate. Suspend reality, if you like. =)
> 
> Originally posted to LJ. Moved for archive.

Car parts feel cool and smooth underneath the sweep of his fingers. It’s something that’s alternatively soothing and unsettling. If it wasn’t a car that was being investigated by his hands, he would say that he was violating something that wasn’t his own. And in a way, he is. This isn’t his job. This isn’t his department, but Dean is putting forth the effort. For once, he’s being truthful. And Sam can’t be the one to discourage that. Not after he’s begged for his older brother to just come _back_. 

When his hands come away, there’s black oil underneath his nails, and it smears along the edge of the hood when he firmly pushes it shut. Dean doesn’t even turn his head from where he’s sitting on the cooler, beer bottle balanced on his knee. The sunlight is fading into shadows that they’re both far too familiar with. It paints his profile in yellow and red. 

_Hell fire._

“Is she ready to drive?” There’s more than just expectation in those words. There’s a whole new spectrum of Dean that’s been missing from his older brother until today. Until now, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until this moment. 

He swallows thickly and scratches his forehead with one greasy nail, leaving behind a trail of black smears on tan skin. “I figure she’s ready. It’s my first time, so…” 

Dean stands slowly, letting his back crack as his shoulders roll once. He tips his beer bottle back to finish what remains, and slants a fleeting glance in Sam’s direction that’s not quite a smile, but nothing like the humoring look he’s seen so often lately that it makes him sick. “Let’s see then.” 

He slides into the leather seat of the driver’s side with ease, years of practice making the movement smooth. Sam watches his fingers graze over the steering wheel with purposeful gentleness. Those fingers are calloused. More calloused than they’ve ever been before, even though he can’t really remember the last time Dean’s fingers were smooth enough to not catch on shirt threads. But they always hold their own sense of gentleness when life doesn’t call for the opposite. 

Now more than ever before. 

Dean turns the key, and the Impala purrs. Its familiar sound is empty of rattling, and he flashes Sam a blinding grin through the windshield. _Not bad_ , he mouths. Sam’s lips twitch into a small smile, and he swipes his hands on his blue jeans.

**2**

“Dean, this is ridiculous.”

“You’re just saying that because you can’t do it.” Dean’s breath smells like too many shots of whiskey. Not that it’s a bad thing, the fact being that it’s _Dean’s_ breath, after all. Sam has smelled it under way worse – but also _better_ – conditions. But he’s not going to complain, because his brother is plastered against his side, knee vaguely warm against his through both layers of blue jeans. 

Sam spares his brother a smile and presses a beer bottle to his lips for another tight-lipped drink. “I can too do it. I just choose not to. It’s not classy.” 

“Pfft.” Dean waves his hand vaguely and leans back into the booth bench, head propped against the wall as he watches Sam through half-lidded eyes. “We’re hunters, Sammy. We’ve got class when we need it. This isn’t one of those times.” 

His eyebrows shoot up, and he glances away in an attempt to hide the hesitant smile that’s creeping up over his face. “Dean, I refuse. There’s no point.” 

“There’s always a point,” Dean argues, leaning forward again to curl his fingers around Sam’s and take the bottle away. The action results in Sam’s shoulder being pressed into his chest, and the warmth lingers there as well. He doesn’t even try to move away, and Sam almost resents that he’s using any tactic he has to bend him to his will. Almost. “I’m just doing my brotherly duty and making sure you know the basics. And one of the basics is being able to burp at will.” 

“And what’s the point in that?” 

“The point?” Dean blinks in a confused manner, and then a slow smile cracks his mouth. “The point is to know that you can, idiot. Now do it. Use your diaphragm.” 

“I know how to burp. And I can do it on will if I want to. I just don’t _want_ –” 

Dean’s lips are hard and commanding against his before he can utter out another word of protest. A sharp nip that has Sam gasping with parted lips, and then his tongue is reacquainting itself with the inside of Sam’s mouth with slow, leisurely licks that make the room suddenly lose focus. Whiskey, lime, and dim lights; and he’s close – _dangerously_ close – to grabbing Dean by the hips and forcing him closer. Just close enough so that he can slip eager fingers to where he can feel soft, smooth skin underneath cotton and god. 

But then the slick heat of Dean’s mouth is gone, and it’s enough to make Sam whimper softly. But not softly enough that his brother doesn’t notice and he can feel the air from Dean’s chuckle hot and inviting against his ear. He speaks, voice a dark thrum, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “You want more?” 

“Hell yes.” But when he leans in, Dean turns his head to the side and Sam lands a kiss on nothing more than his weathered cheek. He wants to bite the salty skin, but he fears that Dean will pull away even more.

“Do it then. Prove it to me.” 

“ _Dean_.” His brother’s name is nothing more than an annoyed growl, and he knows it. He can feel the evidence that it’s not just a game to his brother pressing hard against his thigh, and he wants. Wants now, if possible. But when he reaches with one hand, Dean’s rough fingertips scrape against the thin skin on the inside of his wrist and hold his hand still. “Dean, you’re killing the mood. If you make me burp for sex, I’ll jerk off in the bathroom where you can’t watch.” 

“Whatever makes you happy, Sammy,” his brother answers cheerfully, quickly drawing away and leaving a rush of cold where his body has just been. Sam feels the absence like a physical ache. “I’m still capable of using my right hand. But I think you’ll have a bit more trouble, knowing that you could have had more tonight if you’d just done what I asked.” 

Sam watches him in disbelief for a moment. When Dean orders another shot and doesn’t even glance his way, he scowls and waits a couple of seconds before giving in and letting out a relatively large belch that has the bartender looking at him oddly from across the room. Dean has the decency to look impressed before he’s on Sam again, one knee shoving demandingly between his brother’s. 

“You’re seriously a freak, you know that?” Sam gasps, tilting his head away and shuddering when Dean bites at a sensitive spot underneath his jaw. He mutters something into Sam’s skin, but follows it with his tongue too quickly for Sam to care very much what exactly he says. 

But when he finally stands up and pulls Sam along behind him back to their motel room, Sam swears he hears him say something like, “Just got to cover all my bases, Sammy. Can’t skip out on the burping.”

**3**

A newly-bitten werewolf that formerly held the occupation of a fitness trainer in California causes the deaths of fifteen civilians and two hunters before they arrive on the scene. Only after Sam gets slammed into nearly seven walls and Dean survives an evil-looking gash to the back of his right shoulder do they really understand why it took so long to have the werewolf gone and dealt with. It doesn’t help that Dean is still clinging a tiny bit to the façade of not caring that the next hunt could be his last, but Sam bites back the sharp words that taste like gall in the back of his mouth.

Because the ride back to their motel rattles and jars every aching bone and joint in Sam’s body, and Dean can’t be feeling much better. When he glances over to the driver’s side, his brother has the furrow in his forehead that means he’s in pain. Sam actually reaches out to touch his shoulder with one broad palm, and he winces noticeably. He doesn’t say anything. But the painful expression that Sam has been able to read since he was five and Dean broke his leg after tripping over a tree root while they were playing a messed up version of tag says everything: _Leave it._

By the time they make it back to the room, Dean’s whole right sleeve is covered crimson. Sam has to walk right behind him so that no one can catch sight of too much blood in passing if they looked just the right way, although he very much doubts that this motel could afford one security camera, let alone enough to cover the entrances to customers’ motel rooms. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Sam makes sure that it’s locked and turns back to see Dean standing in the middle of the room looking a little helpless despite himself. 

“You got anything that needs fixing?” he asks gruffly, bending over to search through their bag for the first aid kit – or their messed up version of it, anyway. 

Sam tries not to roll his eyes. “Shut up and let me look at your shoulder.” 

“Nice. And who’s in charge here?” When he stands up straight again, he’s got the bag of supplies in his hands. He waves it around vaguely before dropping it on the bed carelessly and limping into the bathroom. Sam follows him impatiently, waiting while Dean shrugs off his outer shirt and carefully peels away his white t-shirt without as much as a wince. 

But Sam winces for him; calloused tan fingers carefully sweep over the outer edges of a wound that had just begun to heal with the help of Dean’s shirt cotton. Now it’s fresh and open again, bleeding more than he’s comfortable with and that has got to stop soon. He presses one of the white hotel towels to Dean’s shoulder and makes a mental note to burn it or throw it in the Impala before they leave. “You need to be sewed up. We’ve got to get you to the hospital.” 

“No hospital in this town,” Dean grunts, swiveling his neck and putting on a show that he’s not as bad off as Sam thinks he is. He doesn’t buy it. “Just a bunch of rednecks that probably don’t wash their hands like you’d want them to.” 

“Stop moving,” he commands harshly, eyeing the plastic bag he brought into the bathroom with them. Inside, he can see needles and thread gleaming in their individual sewing kit, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “This can’t be left this way, Dean.” 

“Know that,” his brother mumbles, lashes lowering as he squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden pressure Sam is putting on the wound. Sam watches his face – reads the pain in its features – and sweeps his gaze over the rest of Dean’s torso, making note of other bruises and scratches that should be dealt with later. “You’re going to have to do it.” 

Sam’s spine pricks, and his eyes go calculating and uncertain. “I’ll mess it up. You always do the sewing.” 

Dean lets out a choked laugh, and he sees red. _Not my brother, you bastards. This is my year, not yours._ But his voice brings Sam back out of violent thoughts, and he thinks briefly, _Well, at least he can still do that_. “As lithe and limber as I am, Sammy, I can’t bend my elbows that far or turn my neck enough. You’ll have to do. Besides, you need to learn anyway.” 

He fishes the sewing kit out of the bag with his good arm and hands it back. Sam takes it uncertainly, eyeing it as if it’s going to bite him for a good few seconds before Dean says dryly, “Thread it the normal way, Sammy. Skin is skin is skin. It’s not that different from cloth and I’m sure you’ve sewn some doilies in your time.” 

His eyes narrow as he does what Dean says. “Not exactly the best time to be all smartass, jerk.” 

“Bitch.” But a ghost of a smile twitches his older brother’s lips, and it stays there even after Sam begins the laborious, careful process of stitching skin back together. Dean curses a few times and pauses every once in a while to turn and make snarky comments about Sam’s progress. But as a whole, he gives out general instructions and lets his brother do the rest. 

When Sam finishes, Dean gulps down two aspirin without water and abandons the bathroom for his bed after making sure Sam doesn’t have anything that needs to be taken care of. He shrugs off Sam’s hands skimming over the rest of his torso. “We can do it tomorrow,” he says wearily, and vanishes into the shadows of the room. 

Sam wishes piecing things together could always be so easy.

**4**

“Dude. What the hell is that?”

Dean cocks one eyebrow at him and then goes back to fidgeting with the motel room’s ancient television. He’s got an audio video cord in one hand, and he’s crouched behind the television’s small stand. His other fingers are busy searching for something without the aid of his vision. “I know we had a deprived childhood, Sam. But please don’t tell me you can’t identify what this is.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and picks up one of the small, grey controllers out of the cardboard box that’s sitting on the table between the two twin beds. His eyes run over it curiously, fingers swiping away the dust that’s gathering between the buttons. “A Nintendo. But _why_ , Dean? Why do we have one? And what are you doing?” 

“Hooking it up,” Dean answers defensively, and he crouches forward to the plug the cord into the back of the television. “We used to have one of these before the fire. Dad’s old one from when he was in college. He let me play it sometime.” 

“Where’d you get this thing?” 

“Garage sale. Some guy sold it to me for five dollars.” Dean looks supremely pleased with himself when he leans over and turns the ancient machine on. _Nintendo_ scrolls across the television screen and is quickly followed by the game menu for _Mario Brothers_ with the characteristic theme music. “And it still works. God himself plays this game, Sam.” 

Sam flashes tired eyes at the screen. “Do we really have time for this? I’m sure there’s something else –” 

“Hell no, you are not going to the library to do more research,” Dean interrupts immediately, crossing the room to pull the controller from his brother’s hands and to grab the other one that remains in the box. “Bobby hasn’t called and we’re going to sit around for an hour and play video games.” 

“Dean, I played PS2 in college.” 

“Huh well. You haven’t played me,” Dean retorts, eyes narrowing as he watches Sam read his face. There’s stubbornness and _don’t argue this_ and _let’s just do this once_ in that look. Sam feels something suspiciously like fondness swell in his chest, but he doesn’t look away and he doesn’t humor the feeling. Too much. “And this is different. This is _classic_. I’m showing you the ropes. Now sit down so I can beat your ass and save Princess Peach.” 

“Dean –” 

“And you have to be Luigi.” 

Sam’s forehead furrows in curiosity, but he settles himself on the edge of his bed and takes the controller that Dean offers him. In a last ditch effort to pretend as if this is the most ridiculous thing they’ve done in quite a while (and it’s really not that far of a stretch to say that it is), he snarks, “Are you trying to match characters up by height?” 

Dean snorts. “Of course not. Mario gets Princess Peach in the end. And I always get the girl. Now shut up and watch the master.”

**5**

Sam isn’t used to being the one who doesn’t have nightmares. He’s not comfortable with waking up in the middle of the night and hearing his brother’s breath catching in half-sobbed words that beg. He’s used to splitting pain in his head and another vision of things that shouldn’t be cold in the ground. He’s used to Dean’s arms catching him before he hits the floor. And as much as he hated it at the time, he wishes things could be simple like that again.

Because any pain is better than listening to Dean fighting desperately against a hell hound’s howl. Oh sure, he wants honesty. Sam always wants honest, except now it’s something he’s not sure he can handle anymore. Dean hiding behind looks of _you’ll understand later_ is easier to be angry at for trading blood that isn’t his to give. But this Dean, tossing and turning in the shadows of their motel room, is something entirely different that he wishes he’d never had to see. 

Sometimes he’s afraid to go to him. He’s afraid that maybe his older brother will see a monster in him instead of his own face, another side affect of the impending anniversary of the deal that was forged. But he wipes crust from his eyes and moves. He moves so that he can slip into the bed behind Dean and press murmured words of meaningless comfort against hair that’s scratchy from too much gel. His brother comes awake under his touch, stiffens with the silent scream that he hides so well in the sunlight’s spectrum but isn’t able to keep under the lock when the dark hides him like a mask. 

It’s Sam pressing a calloused palm over the place where Dean’s heartbeat is rapid and scattered. Chest pressed to spine, and they both breathe together. Breathe until these short, stuttered gasps are longer and calmer and what his body needs to stay alive. It’s then that his muscles unclench, molding gradually to the curves that Sam sets for him. Curves that he taught Sam to make. 

Dry skin rasps against dry skin as Dean rolls over in his arms, cool fingers that still tremble skating along the bumps of Sam’s spine. Sam just keeps breathing – because he knows it’s what Dean needs – and searches out his face in the darkness. Feels the familiar curves and lines that tell him his brother’s face isn’t distorted into an expression of terror. It’s just the both of them inhaling and exhaling together, skin soaking in warmth until Dean scrapes his nails back up to Sam’s shoulders, fingers grazing lightly over old scars that are nothing new and all too familiar. 

His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t hear the characteristic chuckle followed by an amused “Sammy” whispered in a vague breath. It doesn’t come, and Sam feels a sharp nerve of concern go off in his head. His hands travel again, tracing over familiar features until he feels Dean’s hand stilling the movement. A small shift, and he can feel the warmth and moisture of his brother’s breath playing against his lips. It’s a taste, but barely. Sam doesn’t know what to do with it. He parts his lips. Is about to ask something, but Dean kisses him too lightly and it feels incomplete. Incomplete, but he gets the message loud and clear. _No words. I’m tired of words, Sammy. So tired. Just…just show me._

It’s not the first time they’ve touched in silence under the cover of dark. But it’s been a while. Things like timidity and shame have long since been worked past, leaving only the need and the _now, now, now._ Dean isn’t afraid to touch him under the light of the sun. And Sam doesn’t shy away when his brother’s eyes roam over his skin in the glow of golden afternoons. _Taboo_ and _they can see_ and _we shouldn’t, we can’t_ are things of the past now. Things that no longer concern Sam, now that he’s counting down the days and the hours and the minutes. 

_Three hundred twenty-six days, five hours, and sixteen minutes_ , he thinks, a clench forming in his chest when he glances over to where the digital clock at their bedside table glows in the darkness. The calculation comes without second thought, without even trying. Only Dean’s hand on the side of his face brings him back and keeps him grounded. _Stay with me. Stay with_ me. 

The barest trace of a thumb brushing over his jaw, and then Dean’s rolling and tugging both of them so that Sam has to prop himself up on his elbows and squint down at his brother. The darkness is thick, and he can only make out the barest edge of a jaw line within his vision. He hears a hard swallow though, and leans down to taste and feel it with the flat of his tongue. Dean’s chest rises with a sudden breath that’s slowly exhaled after the fact. He tilts his head up and away, exposing his throat as if to say, _Yeah, Sam. That’s how you do it_. 

Words are nonexistent, but directions still seem to come gently and unspoken. Sam tastes them in his brother’s lips. Feels them forming against his hair when his mouth is too far away to breathe against with shaky hitches and long, trembling sighs. Instruction is conveyed in the way Dean tenses underneath his hands and mouth, in the way he grips Sam’s shoulders in the darkness and presses bruises to be seen at other hours. And yeah, maybe he doesn’t really need to feel or hear Dean’s approval. He already knows to some degree, and he’s not entirely sure that this isn’t new territory for his brother as well. It’s a different process completely. Something hushed and soothing that makes them curl in on themselves. A quiet exploration of making claims and setting standards. _This is how._

Learning Dean is like playing an instrument. The sex isn’t just a melody, Sam thinks. It’s more complicated than that. There’s the sweet, timid strain of breathless delight that rings in his head. But it’s coupled with a fiercer harmony of heated desire from kisses and caresses that are contrasted in chords with painful, slow stretching. It’s the glory of the matter altogether that creates the symphony he’s trying to write, wreaking havoc to the point of his brother’s brokenness. There’s no applause. Only the tuning of Dean’s uneven breaths against his ear and the ragged way his chest rises and falls underneath Sam’s lips. The almost indeterminable crack of a wordless groan that slips into the thick darkness around them when he finally gives and takes. 

Gentle rocking and canting of hips doesn’t last long. It’s too much emotion and not enough resolve. Dean falling apart hot between them burns like a brand, and Sam shakily gives himself over to sensation with those familiar, encouraging fingers digging into his shoulders. His brother’s lips press softly to his forehead when his breathing evens out. The rough palms on his back say everything. _I want everything for you. I give everything for you_. 

It’s the one lesson he can’t learn.


End file.
